I was in the middle of making a cappuccino when I first
noticed her. I saw her
standing
there, leaning against a wall,
watching
me from off to my right. She was attractive, with the shortest hair I'd
seen on a girl in a long
time.
Ordinarily
I would have made some
conversation.
But I was focused on
getting
the foam just right.

She tells the prequel to
the story.
She says she saw the back of my head from across a crowded room, and
said to herself "He's the one.". She says later, when she saw what I
was wearing
(black
blazer, Levis, brown
cowboy
boots), it was confirmed. Whatever it was that was to come between us,
she intuited it long before I did.

Our
paths
crossed often after that. My attraction grew. She was the kind of
person who pushed back,
meaning
when I engaged with her, I knew there was someone there -
not just as an assertive
being:
she was muscled too. Her body was strong. Her choice of wardrobe
showcased her musculature. It was very tastefully done.

One evening as we were about to go our separate
ways,
I suggested "Pizza?" to which she agreed. We
walked
to her car to drive to Domino's. What I saw,
stopped
me in my tracks. Many California license plates' formats are a number,
followed by three letters, then three more numbers. The three letters
of her Ford Tempo's license plate were my initials
LGP
(Laurence Guy Platt),
the first
time
I'd seen my initials on a license plate. Was it a sign? I
tried not to make it
mean
anything.

The first
time
I hugged her (I
meanreally hugged her), that is to say the first
time
I hugged her more than just a
friendly
"Goodbye"
or
"Hello",
she whispered in my ear "I'm a good
partner.".
If I wasn't already
enrolled,
now I wanted in - bigtime.
It was partly because
partnership
(ie the idea of
relationship
as
partnership)
was high on my priorities, but mostly because she had the verve ie the
elan to come out with it and say it explicitly.

We planned a vacation in Maui, Hawai'i together. I was returning from a
visit to
New Zealand,
and would meet her at Kahului airport when she arrived from California.
She flew in on the now defunct TWA (Trans
World Airlines), her arrival serenaded by the
ever-present
Hawai'ian trade winds. When she disembarked, she had one hand on her
head, holding on to the pork pie
hat
she stylishly wore, to prevent it from blowing away. The snapshot of
that scene doesn't require hardcopy. It's indelibly etched in my
memory. She was
happy
to see me. I knew something big was starting. And I was eager to be a
part of whatever it was.

In the night, I would
wake
and turn towards her,
watching
her
sleep.
There was a sense of belonging, a sense of knowing I was in the right
place. Sometimes she would
wake,
see me lying there looking at her, and
sleepilyask
"What?", to which I smiled and replied "Shhh!", touching her forehead
gently with my
fingers
until she closed her
eyes
and went back to
sleep.
Other
times
she would reach out for me, just wanting to be held - that was
enough.
They were special
moments.
At some
point
I don't know when, I realized the edges of all those special
moments
had run like colors and blurred together creating a
24 / 7 / 365
seamless union.

In many
ways,
she was
extraordinary.
In other
ways,
she was
ordinary.
You could, I suppose, say that about anyone. I could indeed say that
about all the others.

But she wasn't like all the others. She was different. She was the one
who became the mother of
my three children.